


To Represent an Order

by rabbitprint



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: 2500 words, Counted Word Fic, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years following the Fifth Blight, the growing animosity between templars and mages has not been overlooked by the Circle at Nevarra City -- along with the need to reinforce trust between the Order and the common people of Thedas. Tasked with a patrol of Nevarra's smaller villages, a young templar named Jakob makes a trip to visit his mother and ailing sister, only to be confronted by a decision he never wanted to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Represent an Order

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 Bioware 'Asunder' challenge, 2500 word limit.

It was always bleak near the Anderfels, always bitter -- not from the weather, which thawed the further one went north, but from the sense of emptiness on the air. Darkspawn had dominated the land for so long that there were no idle travelers. What wildlife remained was skittish, and fled quickly at any noise. And though temperatures were better in the north, Wintermarch nights were still cold enough to be unpleasant; the possibility of hurlocks in the bedroll made the wilderness even less appealing.  
  
Jakob had left Nessum behind days ago, following the river west as it wriggled towards the Hunterhorn Mountains. The village he was looking for was a tiny settlement named Warnau, invisible on most maps due to its unimportance. It produced stringy goats, stringier vegetables, and the occasional shipment of lumber for its neighbors. Otherwise, he was lucky to have a landmark to follow; the river was his sole guide for most of the route, until placid trails of chimney smoke peeped through the trees and urged him the rest of the way.  
  
He took directions from the watchman at the gatepost, an elderly guard who was too busy rubbing his hands over the fire to ask Jakob's business. The boy manning the stables was asleep in an empty stall, swaddled up in several layers of blankets. Jakob tossed a few coins by his feet, collected the saddlebags, and dutifully made the rest of the trip on foot.  
  
There was a woman in the cottage yard when he arrived, fussing over firewood in a leather sling. There were more lines in her face than he remembered; her nut-brown hair escaped in wisps from her kerchief, and the evening light drew shadows under her eyes. When she saw him, she set the bundle down immediately, the thick straps slipping through her hands like snakes.  
  
"I didn't think it was possible for you to grow any taller," she said, reaching up to squeeze his shoulders.  
  
He humored her affection with a smile. "It's good to see you again, Mother."  


\- - - - -

The innards of the cottage were rough, but sturdy; the roofing beams looked strong, and not about to collapse at the first breeze. The fireplace had a wide, stone hearth, spotted with dishes and pieces of laundry left to dry. Much of the furniture was of crude construction. Sheepskins and rags were spread everywhere, padding against the splinters.

"Let me set up a bedroll for you," his mother insisted, leaving the firewood at the hearth and returning to fuss at his untrimmed hair. "I didn't think the Order would let you go on leave like this."

He shook his head away impatiently; he was twenty, not a child to be groomed. "It's not as simple as that, Mother. A few of us have been sent out to visit villages across Nevarra, including our homes. There's been rumor of more and more escaped mages, and the Knight-Commander is concerned about making sure the common folk know they can rely on us. We're here to represent the Order, a reminder that it's here to help."

Her hand paused in reaching for his ear. "And I'm sure that reminder has nothing to do with the fact that when templars are seen as individuals with faces and families, they also have an easier time convincing people to turn in apostates."

Jakob scowled. "I've been working hard at being accepted within the templars," he replied pointedly. "Being included on this list is a mark of honor."

His mother smiled, but it was a skeletal twitch of her lips. "You speak their words so well. But enough of this -- your sister has missed you. She always asks if we've received any news." With that, she released him, turning back towards the fire to check the stewpot. "She's got another fever again, but this one is mild. She's been sleeping all evening. Here. Bring her some broth."

\- - - - -

  


Lara was as slight as he remembered, a girl of thirteen years who looked more like ten. Her skin had a pale, unhealthy sheen in the candlelight. Excitement lit her eyes when she saw him; she clutched at his sleeve, her fingers as weak as the talons of a newborn chick. He fed the broth to her carefully, helping to wipe her chin so that she could conserve her energy. She was asleep again almost instantly after lying back down: one final scrabble of her hand against his arm, and then nothing.

He collected the empty bowl and left her in peace, returning to the main room to tally up a list of repairs. All the furniture was rickety. The knotwork rugs were barely holding together. Strings of vegetables hung in braided ropes on one wall; he eyed them as well. The onions were fine, but the garlic looked like damp weather had claimed it, for the upper bulbs had suspiciously browned.

Frowning, he tried to pull the length of garlic down, but it stayed stubbornly on its nail. "Lara looks better," he lied. "Have there been any different medicines, any herbs that help?"

His mother shook her head, seated at the hearth and nurturing the fire. "Still as frail as the day she was born. This climate isn't good for her. I wish we could have stayed in Antiva."

"Antiva was a _terrible_ place to live," he retorted. He made another futile tug on the garlic rope, which continued to resist. Irritated, he fetched the poker and tried to hook the braid off its nail. "We barely afforded it even when we begged."

A log crumpled in the fireplace; his mother turned her gaze upon it. "The money you send helps us a great deal, Jakob. But -- are you sure you cannot find somewhere else to work, _anywhere_ else -- "

"I never had a chance to learn a trade," he reminded her shortly. "It's this, or become a thug."

With a final yank, the garlic braid finally came off the wall -- but the nail gave way too, spurting free of its moorings. The impetus jerked the poker directly towards his skull, the nail and garlic and metal bar joining together in a parade aimed directly at Jakob's face. He had enough time to gasp, but not enough to flinch.

Then he was blinking, unharmed, still braced for impact even though the air was empty. An invisible force had struck the missiles and flicked them aside; the poker had been wrenched out of his hand to clatter harmlessly against the floor. The garlic braid was dangling off a shelf. One of the rotten bulbs had burst.

He stared at the mess, and then whirled upon his mother.

"I thought you promised that you wouldn't _use_ that sort of thing any more," he hissed, automatically rushing to check the windows, old fears effortlessly claiming his body through habit.

"It was only a little thing to keep you safe, Jakob." His mother's voice was calm, but her lips were pressed firmly together as she watched him perform the familiar checklist. "No harm's been done."

"No harm _yet!_ " Having examined the curtains, he switched to the door, running a hand along the seam and looking for cracks. He waited until he had checked from top to bottom before turning back towards her, his whisper harsh. "What would this village say if they found out? They would think that maybe you were a blood mage, that the reason Lara is sick is because you've been _feeding_ off her -- or that she might be a mage as well and that's why she's ill, because she's secretly an abomination, or that she's a demon _herself._ "

"Nonsense. No one in their right mind --"

"But they're _not,_ Mother!" His voice had risen; he was almost back to a normal speaking volume, and fought to bottle it down. "I've heard it _all_ before, that and worse! People know magic is dangerous, so they let fear fill their imaginations. You know better than to use it!"

His mother drew in a sharp breath, pulling her shoulders straight. "And what good is any of that if I can't protect my children, Jakob? How much worse is it to have that power, and still turn a blind eye to danger?"

The protest choked Jakob's throat. He swallowed hard, and scooped up the firewood sling without meeting his mother's eyes.

"A scar on my face isn't worth you going to the Circle," he claimed brusquely. "You should have ignored it."

Her voice stopped him midway to the door. "If I could find a cure for Lara, would you like my magic any better?"

The latch was cold against his hand. "Don't say such foolishness," he muttered, and hauled it open.

\- - - - -

  


In the way of small towns, word of a traveler had spread throughout Warnau well before noon, particularly when the newcomer's horse bore the mark of the Templar Order on its saddle. By the time that the sun had climbed high into the thin, grey sky, Jakob had become used to strangers wandering up to his mother's yard, all of them eager and curious for news from Nevarra.

Warnau was a modest village, and the local gossips were no worse than any other settlement. The fields were mixed between pasture and farming. Water from the nearby river had detoured into what the villagers claimed was a lake, but which Jakob privately considered an oversized pond. There was only the barest crust of ice on the water; the center was not yet covered, and the gap peeked like a dark eye through the frosty skin.

Temperatures dipped the next day. Jakob laid in extra firewood, and spent more time indoors attempting to fix the furniture. The storm that night tore in like an ogre -- but it fled just as quickly, leaving behind only fat wads of ice on the trees and a dusting of powdery snow. The village elders shook their heads over clouds of pipe-smoke: a temperamental winter, they said, but not one to take lightly.

It was on the fifth day of Jakob's visit when the consequences struck.

The distant shouting, at first, was nothing -- he assumed it was someone's pet goat gone loose -- but more and more villagers kept running past, until Jakob's own sense of alarm drew him with them. At the lake, a crowd had fetched up along the shore. The ice had been punched through the middle, waters eddying slowly as chunks bobbed and floated; a young boy was clinging to the edge, his round face just barely visible. Jakob shielded his eyes and squinted: the baker's son, he remembered suddenly, and then recognized the man crawling out on the ice to save him.

Bernhard, the village baker, was out on the lake's surface. He was on his belly, arms and legs splayed as wide as he could, but even that wasn't enough to diffuse his weight; the ice creaked beneath him, threatening to dump him next. He had scrabbled as close to the center as he dared, and was trying to throw a length of rope -- which kept falling short, too short, and the boy's hands kept slipping a little more, vanishing by fractions into the water.

"Get closer!" someone was shouting. Another man else was cursing, unbuckling his jacket so he could try instead, and older farmers were grimly looping together a chain of longer rope -- but even Jakob could see that there wasn't enough time to crawl someone else out. The boy's head was no longer visible over the lip of the puncture; his fingers were sliding away.

With a crack, the ice broke beneath Bernhard's elbow. He bent his head down, cursing, unable to go any further -- and when he lifted himself up again, preparing for what would be a suicidal lunge, the remaining ice froze solid beneath him.

A pale, sapphire light had risen through the frost, splintering out in spiderweb fractures around where the baker lay. The glow of magic welled up swiftly, building a bridge between him and his son; then it seeped back to the shoreline, providing a clear path to safety. With a sick pit of dread in his stomach, Jakob whipped his head around to trace the line of power back all the way to his mother, who was kneeling at the edge of the lake, bare hands pressed against the ice.

Bernhard didn't question the source of his good fortune; he was already scrambling forward in a flash, hauling up his boy. He trusted the ice enough to stand on his feet for the way back, his boots thudding against the unnaturally-reinforced surface as he hurried along, pressing his son to his chest. Within only a few moments, they had the boy back on the shore, keeping him there long enough to check his breathing and color -- then they were taking him away inside, in a rush to strip off wet clothes that were already freezing stiff.

That left only the crowd, Jakob, and his mother.

She got to her feet slowly, eyes downcast, dusting snow off the folds of her skirt. Some of the villagers were already shrinking away, their shoulders hunched and tense; others were murmuring their gratitude, their lips pinched tight. None of them reached out to touch her. A few simply stood there, fingers pressed against their mouths as if their silence could convince the world itself to ignore what had happened.

"Mage," someone hissed, someone whose face he couldn't see. " _Apostate._ "

Jakob realized he had gone completely still. The villagers shifted on their feet. They were _all_ standing there, all looking at _him_ now -- expecting him to make a decision that would somehow be right.

He’d never prepared for this. The Order had taught him how to kill mages as necessary -- they had no exceptions for family. If his mother attacked him, he would have to fight; his mind clipped the thought off there, balking at the rest. If his mother attacked him. _If_ she tried to escape.

He was a templar. The villagers expected him to act.

Everyone was watching him. Jakob's desperate gaze flitted from face to face, finding no respite. There was only the lake, the village, the winter sky -- and his mother studying him with a flat, diffident expression, her eyes as incomprehensible as an animal's, making it worse with every word she refused to utter in her own defense.

"Mother," he said at last, his mouth dry. "Hold out your hands."


End file.
